Joanna we are your children (https://www.linkedin.com/pulse/joanna-we-your-children-tom-muyunga-mukasa-aha-apha-apsa-aamue/)
Joanna we are your
children
Joanna a Mother,
Of mountains of
hope,
She swayed and danced,
In a vigorous and
captivating frenzy,
“Grazing in the Grass,”
In an about
turn,
Shakes to an
inner beat too,
“Back to my Roots,”
As well as,
To the trembling
tree branches,
She contemplates,
While the pata-pata
beat of raindrops,
Hurling
hurriedly from the sky,
Pelt Africa with
confusion,
The story making
the rounds,
A market place
is in disorder,
Salt off the
shelves,
Is trampled upon,
By feet fleeing,
After an ultimatum,
To Africa you
must return!
Botswana,
Cameroon,
DRC,
Kenya,
Malawi,
Nigeria,
Togo,
Uganda,
Zambia
Zimbabwe,
As long as you
are Black,
To Mexico!
You as well?
Brown!
Wait!
White American!
But you are
White!
You too?
It can’t be!
When one
suffers,
All of us
suffer,
A child comes
running,
Joanna sent her
children,
To be educated,
The child had
high scores,
With stretched
arms,
Joanna hugged
the child,
Mama,
Shouts the child
excitedly,
South Africa is
in Africa!
Ssh!
Joanna shisses
the child,
And places a motherly
palm,
Over the child’s
mouth,
Ssh!
No!
South Africa is
in Europe!
Another elder daughter,
Called Mandy,
Had returned,
From Africa!
Joanna had
crafty ways,
To wash the
African epithet,
Off her body and
from her mind,
She had given
birth,
To several
children,
She is African,
But she will
never admit,
The sand of time
swept by winds,
To love the
children,
Is to love
Africa,
To deny Africa,
Is to deny the
children,
South Africa is
in Europe,
She held on,
To a disturbing self-image,
Mandy,
The daughter
who,
Studied in
Africa,
Was never
celebrated,
She had a
Medical degree,
Another son,
Studied in
America,
He returned,
On a plane
without pomp,
As his plane touched
down,
Another with Joanna’s
select children,
Was taking off,
To transport the
select children,
To America,
The son who
returned,
Has his laundry,
Ironed by Mandy,
Joanna’s inner
beat,
Still throbs,
The rivers which
flow,
Flawlessly,
Are muddy and
slower,
In some places,
They dried up,
Joanna’s umbilical,
Distorted and
grotesque,
No longer feeds
a child,
Laughter turned
into woes,
The hearts are
infernos,
Turned pitiless
and Kafkaesque,
Ubuntu,
A basin,
A baby,
And water,
All thrown out!
Rescue jets,
With Insignias
Of all African
countries,
Full of Joanna’s
Extended children,
Return them to
Africa!
For a rebirth.
And a return to Obuntu.
